Dicknipples
by C-C-C-Crack Pairings
Summary: France has contracted a terrible STD, and Russia is terribly upset with him. The only thing worse than this is the fact that France is pregnant with Russia's baby. Or is it Russia's baby? Rated For: Yaoi, Future Lemons, MPREG, and Cursing
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: Welcome to my masterpiece. If you do so dare to continue the read below, I warn you, those with eyes nary a teenager, who fear MSM, and whose throats inflame upon consumption of peanuts may not last long. However, if your brain lusts for the feeling of a fresh, steaming pile of FRussia crack, then go forward; for your comprehension gaskets will have an orgasm of the freshest and most satisfying variety.

This is a four part series.

* * *

><p>"Hello, Mr . . . Bonnefoy? Is it?" Doctor Edge glanced down at the clipboard he was carrying. "Ah! Yes, I am correct."<p>

The Frenchman fidgeted in his seat; he hoped the doctor would not hand down the diagnosis he feared so terribly, "Bonjour, Doctor Edge." France bit his lip. "Is it . . . bad?"

Doctor Edge feared this question like he feared his wife's potato-green bean casserole (I mean what the hell, Sharon? Really?). Instead of a reply, the doctor allowed his hand to float over to a red, foreboding button on the wall to his right. He pressed it and the room darkened; alas, this was not the most bizarre happening as a projector, projection screen, and a disco ball inched down from the ceiling.

"Doctor, I do not wish to question your methods, but how will a disco-" France was cut off by his lover's gentle hand.

"Please don't fret, my love." Russia's purple eyes pierced France's soul and planted love in its core.

France moaned rather excitedly, shocking Doctor Edge. "I can't wait to get home so we can make love, L'Amour!"

Doctor Edge shook his head, "I'm sorry, but you two can't make love."

The color drained from France's face. "No, don't say it!"

"I apologize," Doctor Edge said, bishounen sparkles forming around him, "but you have _dicknipples_."

"No!" Russia roared, knocking France over in a fit of rage, "What will my penis do now?"

Doctor Edge looked very angry at the spousal abuse he was witnessing, "I'm sorry Mr, Braginsky, but you're going to have to leave. "

Russia nodded and itched his balls. And then he left, "I'm going to go masturbate. In your office's bathroom."

"Have nice time," the doctor smiled, "you beautiful sexual deviant."

France reached for his switchblade, but decided against it. This was his doctor; he need an examination first.

"Now," Doctor Edge said, returning to his rather vulnerable patient, "remove your trousers and get on that table."

France hesitated. What if the doctor molested him?

"Get. On. The. Table." The doctor's voice was impatient, but full of professionalism.

"Yes, doctor." France unbuckled his belt and slid out of his brand name jeans. Hey, this _was_ France after all, so they had to be name brand.

The doctor squinted at France's penis. "Nice specimen."

_What a brash comment. _France thought, _I'm surely to be molested. Terribly. _

France hopped onto the examination table; Doctor Edge pulled out the foot rests and gestured at them.

The metal was cool and soothing to France's feet, kind of like Russia's sex pipe. It kind of turned him on.

He felt an erection coming on.

As France's penis grew, the doctor gasped, "OH NO! THIS IS PRECISELY THE THING I WAS HOPING _WOULDN'T _HAPPEN!"

France squealed, "What do you mean, monsieur?"

"Your penis, it's . . . it's . . . _deforming itself_!" The doctor quickly grabbed a syringe of sedative.

France's penis hissed.

"Augh!" France was panicking, "Doctor, help!"

The Frenchman's member started to jerk and convulse. "It's possessed!" France began to shed tears of pure fear."

"You are mine now!" France's penis screeched.

"It's talking!" France kicked at his own manhood. "What do I do?"

The doctor ran over to the examination table and stuck the hypodermic into France's vital regions.

The hissing, jerking, and talking stopped.

"Phew," Doctor Edge let out an exasperated sigh, "I'm glad that's over."

France nodded his head (the one on his shoulders) and wiped his tears.

The doctor suddenly grabbed the sedated penis and began to look it over. "Don't worry, your penis has been sedated, it can't become erect - or attack - for at least another hour or two."

This sentence scared France more than anything the doctor had said so far. _No sex for one, maybe two, hours?_

After ten minutes of poking and prodding, Doctor Edge was confident that France, did in fact, have dicknipples.

"Sir, you have contracted a rare sexually transmitted disease most commonly know as 'dicknipples.' Us in the scientific field refer to the disease as 'dickus nippelius.'" The doctor's voice grew sensitive. "Unfortunately, there is no cure for this, and you will most likely die from it."

"What?" France began to cry once more.

"Yes, I understand it is a cruel fate," the doctor bit his lip, "my wife died that way."

France nodded and patted Doctor Edge's head. "I've lost many lovers."

"Any to dicknipples?" The doctor looked hopeful.

"No." Then France pulled out his switchblade knife.

"What's this?" The older man stumbled backwards and let out a quiet shout.

France stabbed the doctor in the chest. "That's for hitting on my boyfriend!" France pulled the knife out and licked the blade.

"Augh!" Doctor Edge knew he was dying, so he made a final diagnosis. "By the way . . . you're three months pregnant."

France stopped in his tracks (as did his heart), "I'm . . . what?"


	2. Chapter 2

The sunlight that glistened off of France's face was marvelously warm and full of lust. It was lust that turned him on, but not in an erection-y kind of way. It was more like how you get horny when you're bored and end up masturbating for absolutely no reason. It occurred to him that this kind of debauchery usually led to the most unexciting of orgasms, so he immediately shielded his face from the son.

"You'll not have me, Messier Soleil!" France screamed before his statement was cut off by a quiet moan. Somehow, Russia was behind him, and he was _still_ beating his thick Russian sunflower.

"Unf."

~ Unabashed Adultery ~

"L'Amour, what have you done with the basil leaves~?" France asked, his voice tinged with sexual desire. "I need it for my recipe."

"They're in bedroom!" Russia shouted, his words minced by the crunching of potato chips and gulps of vodka.

"Why are they there?" France inquired as he smoothed out the wrinkle on his apron. Hey, if it was the only thing he was wearing, it better look good.

"I was pleasuring myself with their bottle," the other man chortled, "if you can't do it, I might as well have toys that can and will! Cука."

"What was that? Did you just insult me and curse me in your dirty native tongue?" France began to tear up, his eyes becoming wells that dripped pure, unadulterated sadness. This sorrow was unpierceable, it was unimaginable, it was like being in a hot strip club for gay guys only to be entertained by Gabriel Iglesias. Not Enrique. Gabriel. Enrique's Mexican bod is like using butter for lube. And France loved using butter for lube. And similes. But forget that. "If you hate me just come out and say it!"

"You fucked another man and made yourself contract terrible disease!" Russia cried. "I haven't gotten to have sex or get penis put deep inside my manhole in over two weeks. Not only that, but you're pregnant, and I'm not ready to be father!"

France's heart dropped. "Fine! I'll get an _abortion_!"

"'Kay."

~ The Fiendish Friend Who Didn't Like Him, But Will Probably Help Him Get an Abortion If He Gives Him a Blowjob ~

_Ding dong._

_Oh_, that noise. That noise sounded like what France _yearned_ for. _In italics. _

"'Ello," the blond man said, still looking at his tea, "if you're selling something, trust me, I already have three of them."

He looked up, and dropped his tea cup; as it shattered, a soul-piercing scream was let out by a cat, 3000 miles away in India. This is a coincidence and holds no consequence to the story.

"What the bloody hell do you want, France? Can't you see I'm in the middle of my squibbly-squabbly tea for the afternoon tiddly-winks. Bloody hell, I'm English as fuck!"

The clothes hanger in France's hands shuddered.

"Abort." France said. "Abort. Abort. Abort."

"What the flibbity-flobbidy do you bloody want you right-o bloody poof? I'm tryna shove me willy-popper into this chicken's shobbidy-coot. If you don't bloody mind, me Big Ben is gettin' all floppity-flim witchu standin' there, so get on with ya charade or be movin' off me bloody lawn. Sweet Mary and Joseph, ya pit stink is killin' me petunias." England took a deep breath. "The Queen's old as right-done bloody hell, she is, but I think ye shobbidy-coot is less rose-like than hers. Hope ya don't take none affense, guv'nor, but ya need to be movin' your bosom before I call the bobbies to come and git ya."

France dropped to his knees; he didn't know what to do, so he made up for his lack of creativity by attempting to suck off his acquaintance of mutual hatred. As soon as his hands his the Englishman's zipper, and beefy hand slapped his fingers away.

"Git ye bloody fine-o mouth away from me bobbin'-lucks. I swear, I never felt so violated in me entire life. Not even when that down-up flobbidy-coot-McDonalds-kully-knobbidy-Jane-Tarzan-ho tried to slight me fish and chips with a bit of date rape. She wanted me D, she did, but I wouldn't right let'her have it cause I was tryna be celibate for Lent. You feel me, non-Protestant coot?

"But I just wanted an abortion and some rancorously promiscuous sex with a near-stranger!" France moaned as he once more made for England's penis. "Please!"

"Right-o, I'll give ya a good dickin' if ya promise not to be too rough with me tally-wagger. I got me a right-up slut in me trunk and I want to save me energy for 'er."

~ One Awkward Abortion-Sex-Act Later ~

"Father, I don't believe I've ever been in a confessional before," France said, ringing his hands in the dark closet-like space. "I don't know if I like it."

"No one likes it here," the priest said, "who wants to talk about lust with an old man anyway?"

France suppressed the urge to admit to his sagging skin and dark rooms fetish for fear that he might offend the poor man next to him.

"Are you ready to begin?" the priest prodded.

"Yes."

France began to knit his tale of centuries of debauchery, stealing, killing, and taking candy from babies to the priest. It took more than three hours for the Frenchman to finish.

". . . came on my cousin's blanket, I killed my sister's goldfish and blamed it on the dog, and just today, I got an abortion."

"An abortion?!" the priest gasped and nearly fell from his confessional chair. "It will take more than me to absolve your sins, you baby-killer! I knew Romney should have won!"


End file.
